


Blame it on the Sweaters

by CrowsAtAPicnic



Category: Homestuck
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-17 14:14:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrowsAtAPicnic/pseuds/CrowsAtAPicnic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave first notices him because of his affinity for absurd sweaters.  Karkat first notices Dave because he is a douchebag.  Shenanigans ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blame it on the Sweaters

**Author's Note:**

> Ok this is my first fic and I'm more than a little nervous, but I know that sucking at something is the first step to being kinda good at something so I'm just going to dive right in. Constructive criticism is very much appreciated!  
> Based on a prompt by prompts-and-pointers on tumblr: What's their taste in clothing?

     It was through a smeared, greasy pane of glass that you first saw him.  Ordinarily, you didn’t pay any attention to the people walking by the grimy little café, but this guy was wearing such an outrageous cable-knit jumper that he was probably visible from space.

  
     He came to a stop at the storefront, his back to you so that all you could see was candy red zigzags splashed across a gray field of wool and a mass of black curls perched on top.  It was clear he was waiting for the bus, and you pitied the guy.  Behind you, the television hanging in the corner droned on about wintery mixes and record lows, and you sipped at your crappy cinnamon latte and thanked the overcast heavens that you didn’t have anywhere to be this morning.

  
***

  
     A speckled mass of flannel abused your pupils the next day, thankfully dulled by your trusty shades.  You allowed an amused quirk at your lips before replacing your poker face, thinking that he looked like a very angry cat.  His shoulders were hunched and his hair tangled in such a way that you could have sworn you saw a pair of cat ears among the curls, angled to look like they were flattened against his skull like a pissed kitten’s would be.  Today he was drenched—you supposed the wintery mix had caught up with him.  You contemplated inviting him inside and treating him to a luxurious, two-dollar cup of inner city coffee before you thought better of it, reminding yourself that you had to be at work in half an hour.

  
***

  
     The third time you saw him was a week later.  Whatever evening light that managed to breach the buildings around you bounced off the puddles of slush that always accumulated after the city saw sleet, and your feet were freezing off as you trudged towards your apartment building.  He was across the street, but it was hard to miss the mass of muted turquoise fleece he was bundled in.  You blinked in surprise as he ducked into your usual coffee shop.  Hesitating for a moment, you allowed your feet to jaywalk you to the shop’s front door, and you came to a stop right behind him in the queue.

  
     He couldn’t have been taller than 5’2”, and you had to suppress a sudden urge to ruffle his hair.  A raspy, pugnacious voice surprised you by coming out of his mouth when he ordered (small vanilla mocha with whipped cream).  He sat down at your usual table, pulling out a small paperback and setting aside his coffee to cool.

  
     You mused over ways to strike up a conversation with him as you waited for your order; “Exactly how many granny sweaters do you own?” and “I think your hair has grown since Monday” were thrown out for seeming stalkerish.  Coffee in hand, you decided to sit down in front of him and stare at him until he said something you could work with.  
The metal chair legs scraped angrily across the tiled floor, and you fought a grimace as you placed your coffee next to his and sat down.  The noise jarred him out of his reading trance, and you almost got right back up and walked out of the café because of the glare he shot at you across the table.

  
     “Can I help you?” he asked venomously.  Shit.  This was going well.

  
     “Um.”  Eloquent.  A feat of linguistic perfection.  It was made worse when you realized he was cute--  he had a snaggletooth frown and big chocolate eyes that peered out from behind overgrown bangs; it somehow proved to be an endearing combination.

  
     “We’re indoors, douchebag,” he spat before you had time to recover, scowling at your shades.  You cleared your throat.

  
     “Doctor’s orders,” you replied, peering over the top your shades to give him a full-face blast of Strider ocular glory.  “Sensitive eyes.”  You replaced your shades and sipped your coffee, trying not to let it show when you burnt your tongue.  You gave him a crooked smile as you saw his face flash surprised, then slightly guilty, then back to a scowl.  
“You should be grateful.  Not many people can handle my gorgeous peepers.”

  
     “Fuck off,” he growled, then tried to go back to his book.  It was actually an adorable display, and you weren’t ready to give up yet.

  
     “Watcha reading?”

  
     “None of your goddamn business.”

  
     You tsked lightly and read the title at the top of his page upside-down: _Dark Desires at Dusk_.  You suppress a smirk.

  
     “You know, it’s dusk right about now,” you comment lightly.  He glances up at you warily, and you flash him a rare toothy grin.  “Feeling any… dark desires?” You let your voice drop into a husky baritone for the last two words and lean in closer to him, thoroughly enjoying the way his eyes widen and color rushes to his cheeks.  He slams his book shut and you catch a glimpse of a bare torso and a beach at sunset before it’s buried in his bag again.  His chair nearly falls over as he stands up and grabs his coffee, shooting you a death glare.

  
     “It’s assmunchers like you that make life so fucking difficult,” he grouches, then heads towards the door.  You follow, leaving your own coffee on the table, forgotten.

  
     “Strider.”

  
     “What?”

  
     “Dave Strider.  I’m here at least once a day,” you say, keeping pace with him.  He puts a hand on the door handle, then whirls around, emitting a surprised squeak when your face is closer to his than he expected.

  
     “Well, _Dave Strider_ ,” he spits, “Guess that means I’ll have to avoid this dump like the fucking _plague_.”  And with that he storms out and is lost in the sidewalk traffic, leaving you standing by the door with a small smirk of victory on your lips.  


End file.
